


A Tortuous Process

by compos_dementis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his fall, Sherlock moves to America to live with Irene Adler. A life without John is more difficult than he can possibly imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Post Traumatic Dress Disorder

America is brighter than he thought it would be. Bigger than he could have even imagined. Even the sunlight creeping in through the slats of his blinds is brighter, somehow, and yet also washes him in dull grays that leave him numb and strangely cold. Brighter, yes - and yet colorless. Lifeless. Empty like his life has become. It is loud here in New York City and yet the noise has no meaning. The city is thrumming with life, and yet Sherlock feels no love for this place like he feels for London.

He would make himself a coffee, but the truth is that he never fell asleep last night. He spent the entire night lying awake in the blackness, staring up at the ceiling, wordlessly begging for the heaviness of sleep to overtake him. He doesn't have a case to work on because he's anonymous here, going under a pseudonym (several pseudonyms), and he can no longer be a consultant for the police when he is back to square one. Nobody knows his true name, his true identity. Well, no one except one.

Irene Adler is in this city, continuing her profession with her one friend at her side. Sherlock helped to put her here, after all, and he isn't sure whether or not he regrets that now. Petty of him. Childish envy. That she can have everything while he has nothing. He grips his sheets and slides out of his small rectangular bed, the springs creaking under the sudden absence of weight, and he walks into the tiny kitchen, where the light has become so bright that his eyes sting.

For a brief moment, as he blinks his eyesight back to normal, he sees the phantom vision of John Watson in one of his usual awful jumpers (the one with the diamond pattern, garish, clashes with his hair), holding two cups of coffee (one for himself and one for me), smiling. And for that brief moment, Sherlock feels his heart seize in his chest and wills it into calmness again.

It has been one year to the day, he remembers upon checking his phone, since his swan dive off of the roof of Bart's. The PTSD has, for the most part, left him. PTSD like John once suffered PTSD. Waking in cold sweats at three o'clock in the morning because it's not so much the feel of the fall as the sound of it, the air ripping through his curly hair and past his cheeks and his eyes are watering, and his landing into the rubbish truck doesn't matter because all he feels for that one moment is terrified. There's no contingency plan, if this fails. The point had been that the fall had been the contingency plan in the first place.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Flinching at sudden, loud noises, noises like gunshots, recalling in the back of his head the image of Moriarty's blood and brains painting beautiful dark flowers on the pale concrete. The feel of Moriarty's hand tensing in his own in that final moment. It makes him want to retch because the stench of blood had been powerful enough to make his head spin.

The kitchen is empty. Chillingly empty. Sherlock had, at one time, been quite accustomed to living alone, and had even preferred it. But as they say (the ubiquitous They), that was then, and this is now. It feels like losing a limb of particular importance. Like he had given up a leg and now is forced to hobble, uneven, wherever he goes.

He doesn't make himself a coffee, nor does he get dressed to go out. There is nothing to do here, and life, he finds, is boring and depressing. (He hasn't suffered depression this strongly since he was a teenager.)

Instead he curls up on his ratty excuse of a sofa and remains there until the sun sets again.


	2. The Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Rosie for help with Irene's dialogue!

As a child, Sherlock had been told countless times by his mother that punctuality was everything. Above all else, he was told of manners and the importance of looking your best, especially in the company of a woman. Sherlock isn't a particular fan of the fairer sex - that had always been John's department, not his (John with his new-girlfriend-every-week and then expecting Sherlock to remember all of their names). But he knows when to obey his mother's teachings and when to shuck them. Today seems an appropriate time to fix himself up, though in disguise as a college student, a beanie on his head and a bag full of textbooks.

He is avoiding his usual places today. For all intents and purposes, Irene Adler is dead, beheaded in Karachi, leaving Britain - and more importantly, Mycroft - fooled and clueless as to the truth. The fact that his older brother doesn't know already is shocking, but Sherlock won't push his luck with that one. Sherlock finds himself a seat toward the back of a small cafe, away from a group of teenagers seated at a table in the center, and beside a window so he can watch couples walk by.

All things considered, Irene Adler is doing relatively well in America. She has gotten the protection she needed, and she and Kate (like Sherlock) are now living under different names. She has kept her job (though no longer going under the title of 'The Woman' to anybody but Sherlock himself), and she has built up a great clientele here in the city, going by her dress.

Had it been a mistake to come and meet her here?

It isn't dinner, but he hopes it will do.

Dress - classically black. Lips - as blood red as last they met. Hair - a bun at the base of her neck. It does wonders for her bone structure. He doesn't say so aloud. She is ten minutes late, and compliments aren't his area.

"I like your hat," she says, and it's almost surprising to see her in a way other than how he'd originally seen her (naked and overconfident). She seems much smaller and far more vulnerable here in the crowded American cafe. More real. Much like their conversation by the fireplace back at 221B. (Back home.)

"It's no deerstalker," he replies, biting back the urge to call it an 'ear hat' again. "It does wonders for making me appear younger, however." As usual, his ego remains unbruised. It doesn't matter what the papers in London say about him, not really. John is safe. Mrs. Hudson is safe. Lestrade is safe. That is what matters. Even if John isn't here with him, even if John is not here to answer to his every beck and call, even if John has probably found somebody else by now - he's safe. "But you don't take the route of disguise, do you, Miss Adler?"

Irene smiles. "As I've said before, it's futile. A disguise is a self portrait, so why not simply be myself? Besides, there's really no need for a disguise when nobody's looking for me."

That's true, he thinks, and he feels a twist of guilt and pain again. He wishes that John would look for him. Knows the impossibility of that desire.

"I do like yours, though," she continues, and he half expects her to reach out and touch him. She doesn't. Instead she takes her seat across from him, one knee crossing over the other, eying him. "It's charming, isn't it? A scholar. A hip scholar, what with that hat, but still a scholar. see, Mr. Holmes? A self portrait. An intelligent man dressed as someone who seeks and yearns for new knowledge and intelligence. Fitting."

She leans back in her seat. Her eyes rake his body as though drinking him in. He doesn't move, doesn't even budge. Won't give her the satisfaction. She's trying to calculate whether or not this is a one-time thing. Taking a mental snapshot to keep with her if it is. It's not - but he won't tell her that quite yet. She is as good as he remembered. Not that his memory has ever faulted him - even though, on average, the human memory is less than 70% accurate.

"So tell me." She leans forward and he suddenly wonders if this is a date. "How are you finding America? What are you doing to keep that mind of yours busy?"

The idle small talk is troubling. Sherlock is not well versed in small talk, and finds it both pointless and boring. It had once been one of the primary obstacles in the way of a friendship with John; Sherlock simply is not a social person, and would much prefer the company of a good book on rare and obscure anatomical deformities, or a Brahms song, or his own mind, to anything else.

"Loud," he responds honestly. "Busy. Filled to the brim with people who reek of stupidity. I do find the subway tunnels enjoyable, however. Some of the musicians there have played at Carnegie Hall."

And it would be an excellent place for a homeless network. He doesn't mention that.

Irene simply smiles. "I prefer London myself. But this place isn't half bad. The business here is excellent." He hasn't asked, but she is telling him anyway. Infuriating. Dull. "I imagine your wardrobe is far more limited here than in England as well. I remember seeing your face splashed all over the headlines. And who could forget those cheekbones?" She pauses, presses on, "I'm surprised no Americans have caught onto you. I would have thought your dear John's blog would have reached over this way as well."

Normally, he enjoys compliments. Mostly on his intelligence. He recalls the first time John had done it, and tries immediately to delete it. It's unnecessary information now, and it simply hurts. John's voice clings to his memory like a shadow.

"I keep my nose out of trouble." Sherlock's own voice sounds tired in his ears. "You and Cathy seem to be living together quite happily. And as you said, you are still in the... dominatrix business." The word remains foreign on his tongue. Alien. Dominatrix. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Fishing for information. Looking for answers.

"Only that for you, Mr. Holmes," Irene leans in again, eyelashes lowered, "my services are free." She leans back again, and now instead of a smirk, her smile is genuine. He likes her smile. Doesn't want to like it, though. "You seem a little uptight, dear. I'm certain you could use it."

Eyebrows raising, he turns to look at her again, which to him is the equivalent of shock written over his features. Does she know about his nightmares? About his fear and anxiety, all of these emotions built up inside of him for which, without John, he has no outlet? Of course she knows, to an extent. She must know. She isn't stupid, unlike everyone else. "You're clever, you know," he says, feeling defensive, changing the subject. Anything but to deal with what's before him. "You had me fooled for nearly three days, believing you were dead. You nearly brought England herself to her metaphorical knees. What is a strong, independent woman of your intellectual caliber doing taking off her clothes for the entertainment of men?"

And women, he mentally amends. Mostly women.

"You're changing the subject." She is watching him like a predator watches prey. "I don't always have to take my clothes off, Mr. Holmes. Some of my clients prefer when I keep something on, like a corset or a delicate set of underwear and stockings. I find that many of my clients like to have a little something left to the imagination. Sexual acts aren't always in the contract either; sometimes they just like to be scolded. Besides - I'm a dominatrix, darling. Not a prostitute. I negotiate what I'm willing to offer. In the end, I'm in control."

Ah. Obvious. Why would a woman like her (The Woman) settle for anything less?

Though in all honesty, it is still all frighteningly new to him, has been since his brother first mentioned it. Who would pay to be slapped? Irene had gone after him with a riding crop and he'd hated every second of it. Who does that sort of thing for fun?

He wants to know why she does it. He cannot read her, even now - even with her fully dressed and smiling at him, he cannot read anything in the lines of her forehead or the slope of her nose. It bothers him more than he ever could have anticipated. Normally he can glance at a person and deduce their origins, their parentage, their job, their taste in sports or lack thereof. But with Irene... she is still this enigma to him. He looks at her and cannot see anything, and he knows it wasn't just the lack of clothes, back then. While that had certainly been off-putting, even with her dressed he still can't tell anything about her. Had she suffered in her past, had she lost something important to her, does she find a need for control because of something personal? He has no idea, and that terrifies him.

"Why do you do it?" he asks, genuinely curious, much like a child thirsting for knowledge. Mycroft has told him several times, especially in the past, that he is like a little boy in everything but intellect. That he has... what was it? Oh, yes. The 'emotional range of a nine year old.' He chalks that up to sibling rivalry, though really, Mycroft is more of a parent at this point than a sibling. Lord knows Mycroft had done more mothering than brothering during their childhood. (Sherlock had even gone out of his way a few times to send him Mother's Day texts.)

Irene appears taken aback by his genuine interest. Has no one ever asked her why? Not even Kate? She doesn't seem entirely sure how to answer him. "I like it just as much as my clients, I suppose. The control, the power... it's nice." Sherlock knows that there is something incredibly satisfying about bringing a rich and powerful man (or woman) to their knees. "Sometimes it just feels good to have the upper hand, a feeling I'm sure you share." She's right. Sherlock likes to be in control too, just in a different way. She has no idea how devastating it is for him to ever lose a case. "Now my question; why do you want to know?"

It is really a simple enough answer to her question. He's known her now for quite a long time, but still knows nothing of her, and despite his attempts to keep himself distant, she is all he has right now that is even vaguely familiar. If he forgets to speak as an American, everyone comments on his accent no matter where he goes, and he has no John, no Baker Street, no older brother to come and make it better. He is so used to being surrounded now that he's forgotten how to be alone.

Which is just silly, really, because he'd been alone for years before he met John. Just him and his skull. Now he has nothing all over again - he doesn't even /have/ the skull with him here in America. Everything is back at the flat, his things probably sold to help John pay the rent. There is no way John could afford to live there alone, not unless he'd managed a deal with Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft was helping to pay his bills.

"You said yourself that this is about getting to know one another. Am I prying?"

Irene pauses, considers. "No. I just never thought you'd ever be so interested in my career choice. Not that I mind. Ask as many questions about it as you'd like, Mr. Holmes. I'll gladly answer."

He has the sudden thought that this might be a date. He didn't know that, either. Is it? He is technically still in a relationship with John, but with him 'dead' and across an ocean... how together is together? Does this mean he's cheating? A million questions come into his mind, and he suddenly feels terribly uncertain of himself. A foreign feeling.

"You nearly ruined my brother's career single-handedly. I can't help but take interest."

The mention of Mycroft makes her frown. Irene has to have known this would have to come up at some point. "I do feel guilty about that, Sherlock. I hope you know." She rarely uses his first name, and it makes a touch of color come to his face. It emphasizes her seriousness. After she'd given the information away she'd done a good job of pretending she didn't care (until he called her out on her feelings). She is a good actress, one that does not get enough credit. But now, laid bare, her affections are blatantly obvious. He's surprised he hadn't seen them sooner.

At least he finally knows what all of that had come to. The big mystery is over, and here they are now: Moriarty dead with a bullet through the skull, Sherlock torn apart from John. Moriarty had fulfilled his promise - he'd 'burnt the heart' out of him. 

But Sherlock even now remembers Irene just as she wanted him to. As the woman who'd beat him. Maybe not in the end, but she'd gotten damn close, and he commends her for that. She really is the only woman who matters to him. The woman, as he still thinks of her. Molly is sweet, and he does trust her, but he wouldn't have gone out with her this way, in public, asking questions. Really, he wouldn't have gone out with anyone this way, except perhaps John.

"What's done is done." He'd learned to let go of the past a long time ago. He wasn't able to save his friendship with Victor, nor was he able to know that Irene was playing him for a fool that entire time. 'One lonely, naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.' And he had felt special; Mycroft had been right. As always. When will he learn to listen to his brother? "From what I understand, there was a considerable amount of cleanup. Not to mention the reparations for nicking corpses from their family members."

Irene averts her gaze for a moment, obviously not convinced that he truly feels it is as simple as 'what's done is done'. She's right.

"I suppose there would be," she says, glancing up at him again. "and I suppose it would have cost them a considerable amount of money." Which means that Irene will probably never be able to go home. Just like him. "That's not the part that bothers you though, is it, Mr. Holmes?"

No, that isn't the part that bothers him, because really, he couldn't care less about Mycroft's job or how much money his brother had to pay. He'd grown up in a very wealthy household where money had never been an issue, and he knows that Mycroft will live healthily and happily off of the family inheritance even if he wasn't the British government. It's the fact that Irene had made an utter fool of him. Had 'died' and left him alone and guilty, slamming the door in John's face and denying help as he'd emotionally withered away. Melodramatic, yes; but justified, in his opinion.

He'd barely known her, as his brother had to cheerily pointed out, but he'd felt a connection with her similar to the one he feels with John. Like he can talk to her and she won't mock him for what he says, unlike Sebastian Wilkes, unlike Sally Donovan and Anderson. Irene understands him in ways he isn't accustomed to.

"You played me," he says simply, meeting her gaze, though is unsure if that's appropriate for the situation. "While I commend you remaining loyal to Mor--" The name chokes off in his throat as he remembers the gunshot, blood spattering over the rooftop, the wind whipping around his own hair and coat, staring down at John ('I'm a fake')... the breeze ripping past him as he fell and fell and--

"You let your heart rule your head, and that was your own mistake. Your affections for me were your undoing, in the end. Everyone has a weakness. I suppose we... found one another's."

"I suppose we did," she replies, a small smile on her lips. "You failed to tell me exactly what you thought of my affections, Mr. Holmes. Aside of course from the fact that they were my downfall. So tell me now; what shall we do with them?"

Sherlock feels himself go stiff at her question, and though he doesn't blush, he still feels immensely embarrassed by the topic. He had meant it when he said love was destructive. Look at what it had done to him and John, after all - Moriarty was right, in the end. His love and loyalty to his friends had been what 'killed' him. 

How would he even go about answering that question? Normally he loves slapping people with the truth. But the truth in this case is humiliating for himself, not for anyone else. 

"I'm..." Sherlock has no idea how to reply, what to say. He's never even told John he loves him. It goes without saying, for both of them. Sherlock has never said it to his brother, nor to either of his parents. How would he begin saying it to Irene? That he'd done what he had once thought was impossible and had fallen in love when he'd barely known her. "...I don't know." That is as honest as he can be at the moment. "I'm not good with emotions. Reading them, I mean. Including my own." 

His face never dares to show emotion, doesn't dare to allow her the satisfaction of seeing him break. But she knows - he knows she knows. "You don't know? Usually I'd be disappointed but from you Mr. Holmes, I'll take that as a compliment." And she does. He can hear it in her voice. "And since you have no one else here I suspect we'll be seeing a lot of each other. Maybe after a bit of time we can figure it out."

Honestly, Sherlock doesn't know what to think about that. Or anything, these days. Though he had once liked to think that John was all he had, in reality he'd had plenty of people he'd left behind. Mycroft, for one. He never thought he would ever miss his brother, but here he is doing so now. He'd left behind Molly, too. And Mrs. Hudson. That one particularly stings. Lestrade, even if he doubted him in the end just like everyone else. He hadn't even gotten to clear his name and prove his innocence. Just up and left.

Irene really is all he has now. She isn't simply The Woman anymore. She's become so much more than that.

"...I'm going to be evicted from my flat soon," he states, trying to say it casually, but he isn't good at casual, or social, or subtle. It's obvious what he's asking, even from the way his gaze flicks to her and then down to the table, wishing he had gotten a plate or a cup of coffee to stare at. His stomach is twisting up in unfamiliar knots and he's furious with himself, with Moriarty, with Sebastian Moran, with Irene. "I have nowhere else to go. I'm under several aliases, living here, and..." 

He trails off into silence and clears his throat. "Don't make me say it out loud." And then he adds, stiffly, "Please."

"You want a place to stay. Specifically, with me." A note of delighted surprise creeps into her voice. "I suspect you follow cases in the news to occupy your time. Will you be bringing your work home with you?" He imagines bringing home limbs and fingers like he once had at 221B, imagines Irene's assistant finding them in the refrigerator. Something tells him she would be a lot less open to these things than John had been.

"Yes," he says, imagining that there will be a lot of things he will need to bring... home. To Irene's house. This is going to be far more difficult than he anticipated, and he barely asked the question. "I have several delicate pieces of lab equipment that I will need to bring with me. I'm saving up to purchase myself a violin, and when I do, I tend to play music while I think. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end and I have a history of substance abuse." Best to get this all out now so she may change her mind if necessary. He'd said most of that to John, after all, and though he'd once been ashamed about his cocaine problem, he's overcoming it. Mostly.

"Would that bother you? As I said to John, potential housemates should know the worst about each other before coming to a final decision."

Irene chuckles. "Not for me, no. But perhaps for Kate." She pauses as though for theatrics. He can appreciate that. "I suppose I should warn you that she and I can be a bit loud. She screams."

Sherlock's eyebrows come together in honest confusion. He is leaning innuendo, but mostly he finds it pointless. He knows the basics, just enough to send a sharp jab at Anderson for cheating on his wife, but-- Oh. Oh. This time he does turn a little pink but just stares at the table, clears his throat, and says, "I don't mind noise. Usually." He makes a lot of it himself. Not in that regard, but just household things. He tends to bang things around, to shoot things out of boredom, to spray-paint the walls. Since it will be Irene's house and not his own this time, though, he will try to keep his boredom more under wraps.

Kate. He wonders how she will take this. Irene's assistant. Assistant-slash-lover, he supposes. ....Kind of like John. But they weren't like that, were they? Not as... obscene. Sherlock prefers curling up on the sofa with tea and bad films to sex any day of the week. "Is that a yes, then?"

Irene smiles again. It's genuine, and soft, and it's like she's seeing through him, through his hard shell and into his innermost thoughts. He wouldn't be surprised if she could. "Yes, Sherlock," she says softly, reaching across and taking his hand. He nearly pulls away, but finds his fingers relaxing under hers. "You can stay with me as long as you need."


	3. Cold and Grey

Irene’s home is large. This comes as no surprise. The Woman herself is large, speaking solely of personality, and Sherlock did not expect her home to be any different. It is certainly not 221B, but then again, he supposes nothing can measure up to the feeling of welcome he used to receive every time he would walk through the front door. There is no heart-warming smell of Mrs. Hudson’s homemade biscuits. There are no sets of worn-down stairs, no bloodstains in the plush carpet, no bullets imbedded into the wall. No collections of newspapers scattered about. 

No John.

Sherlock is not an unfortunate man. He is of rich background, reasonably respected, well educated, of sound health once he had given up cocaine. He has many advantages valued by those having them and coveted by those who do not have them. He defeated Death itself, after all. But right now, standing in the doorway of his new bedroom with a bag in either hand, Sherlock feels as though he might have been happier had those things been denied him. Then the contrast between having John and losing John might not have continually been demanding his painful attention. If his head really had been smashed in by the pavement, if John was not now suffering in vain.

“So here you are, Mr. Holmes,” Kate says with a gesture that indicates the room before him. It’s smaller than he had anticipated, and yet larger than he had hoped for. Again, a striking dissimilarity to his lodgings at Baker Street. He supposes he’s grateful for that. Nothing here will remind him of days he put in the past. “You have a restroom just across the hall, and Miss Adler is more than willing to accommodate your… sleeping habits.” 

There is a pause. Is she expecting him to say something? 

“…Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” he says, taciturn as usual. “Thank you.” She gives a brief jerk of her head that he assumes is a nod and the door clicks shut behind her as she leaves. The room feels empty, the walls naked. There are no photographs or paintings, nothing to suggest that this place had been made for permanent residence. Or had she cleared space for him? He does not want to know the answer to that question. He cannot imagine living here for longer than absolutely necessary.

It takes ten and a half minutes to unpack his bags. His clothes are folded and hung, placed in drawers and in the tiny personal cupboard. His chemistry equipment – shoddy, unparalleled to the wonderful glass and metal kit he’d had at home – is set up on the small table on the left-hand side of the mattress. 

The bed has an intricate headboard and the sheets have been freshly washed. Blue, a color that Irene insists suit him, and as he looks to the foot of the bed, he wishes, just once, that they were tucked into military hospital corners. 

No.

Lie down. Uncomfortable. Roll onto side – better. He is not tired, he thinks, not for the first time. It takes an hour and thirty-two minutes before he is able to close his eyes and force himself to sleep.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - -

 

The day is cold and grey. Exceedingly cold and grey, despite being the middle of June. Sherlock turns from the body splayed out on the rooftop and steps onto the lip of the building, where he can see John staring up in horror, in search of an answer that Sherlock cannot give. It is a steep drop, with nothing to break his fall, he realizes upon looking directly down. He pauses for breath, terrified.

There is no sun here. Not a single cloud in the sky. A clear day, and yet there is an intangible veil over the surface of things, a gloom so subtle it goes nearly unnoticed. It makes the day dark. Sherlock blames this on his own fear, and curses his lack of a rational response. There is nothing rational in what he is about to do.

“No one could be that clever.”

“You could.”

John. Dear John, and Sherlock wishes he could rush down to meet him, pull his one true friend into a tight hug, but he can’t. He stands there on the rooftop and gives a broken laugh that he knows sounds on the verge of tears, and Sherlock has not cried in so long – Holmeses do not cry. They pick up and they move on. But losing John will kill him. Has killed him already. Before he knows it, he’s crying.

The pavement below seems a mile wide and flocked with people. Pure white, though he knows logically that pavement is not pure white, save for a dark line of people that line the edge. All of this – the crowd, the pavement, the absence of sun, the cold despite the season, the strange out-of-body experience… it makes an impression on him that he had not anticipated. Sherlock is a man without much imagination. Quick and alert, yes, but only in facts, statistics, useful knowledge. He has never been one for poetry. He knows now that he is cold and numb and scared and uncomfortable. And he knows why, and he catalogues it in his mind.

“This phone call… it’s my note.” His voice is thin and worn. Tired. Not for the reasons he wants John to think, those reasons that John will never believe. “That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

John’s voice, responding, wavering. “Leave a note when? Sherlock?”

“Goodbye, John.”

He doesn’t hear the resounding cry as he hangs up his mobile and tosses it carelessly behind him. It has evidence on it; he simply hopes Lestrade’s people are smart enough to investigate this as more than a simple suicide. His arms extend toward his side like a bird preparing for flight—

\--and he falls.

The wind roars past his ears with the voice of a lion, his body increasing in velocity the further he descends. His arms flail for purchase, but to no avail. There is no rubbish truck this time, though. Panic surges through his brain and he can see the pavement, rushing up to meet him, and his hair is whipping into his eyes, and he opens his mouth but his scream is lost in the wind.

Just as his body hits the ground, Sherlock’s eyes open in the pitch darkness of the bedroom, his heart beating wildly in the confines of his chest, and he is drenched in a cold sweat.

 

\- - - - - - - - -

 

Nightmares, of course, are nothing new to Sherlock. He had many as a child, and even more in adolescence. But the nature of these dreams involve much more than simple humiliation or physical violence. This one in particular. There had been no contingency plan, had the fall failed. (He is beyond grateful to Molly for making it work.) 

He has never been so shaken in his entire life, he thinks, as he sits up and runs his hands repeatedly through his hair. His limbs shake uncontrollably and he finds breathing at a regular rate to be incredibly difficult. 

Glance to the clock. Digital, numbers in bright red. (Moriarty’s blood pooling sickly on the concrete rooftop.) 4:32. Still dark outside, naturally. He will not be able to sleep again, and so he tries to stand, but his knees are trembling, and so he sits back down. Puts his hands back into his hair and pulls.

Were John’s nightmares like this?

Does John have nightmares _now?_

Sherlock’s heart is still pounding. His hands shake the way they had in Grimpen Village and the memory brings out a startled sob that he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. Are those his tears dripping from his chin now? He wipes them away with the heel of his palm, and then presses his fingers to his eyes.

The spots that pop behind his eyelids appear in the shape of John’s face.


End file.
